


cithara

by dezuotian



Series: erastês and erômenos [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezuotian/pseuds/dezuotian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since the two had met, the poet had been a muse to the artist. Grantaire had met Jehan in a Greek literature class, and had never seen someone so excitable. He always had something to say about something, which meant that he never got boring. And he was so smart. And he was so creative. And he was so, so pretty.</p><p>A prequel (sort of) to <i>amor pius</i>, but it is not necessary to read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. do not chase your muses

**Author's Note:**

> A cithara is a professional version of a lyre taking a great deal of skill and used, according to Aristotle, purely for pleasure. It is the symbol of Erato, the Greek muse of love poetry.
> 
> Please see end notes for translations. :)

Grantaire loves Jehan absolutely, and as unconditionally as he can ever imagine coming. (He is still a cynic, after all.)

He was probably (definitely) a little bit (head over heels) in love when they first met. Jehan was just so smart and so bubbly and an artist, too, and he was so, so pretty. And for some reason he actually liked Grantaire and wanted to spend time with him and talk about everything and God, his words were so lovely. Grantaire wishes he could paint the words that came out of Jehan's mouth. And he never had anything but lovely things to say with his lovely words. And whenever Grantaire complimented his hairstyle of the day or his terribly patterned shirts or, dear God, his poetry, Jehan would turn the brightest, cutest pink and he struggled to believe all the obvious signs that Jehan might actually _like_ -like him back.

And everything happened one blustery weekend six or eight weeks after they had met in that Greek lit course.

Jehan's roommate Bahorel had been away doing... Something. He often disappeared with nothing but a text message claiming he was going somewhere and the time or date of his estimated return. No one held him to it, though, knowing he would undoubtedly find something that would delay him for several hours, or several days. And so Jehan had invited Grantaire to spend the weekend in his dorm room to watch old movies and talk and maybe have a few beers. He had been a drinker, and never said no to an opportunity to test his liver, but he wasn't nearly as bad back then. Even if there hadn't been alcohol, he would have gone. After all, it was Jehan. (The same rule still applied, two years later, although nowadays there was almost always booze.)

After his last class on Friday afternoon, Grantaire made a quick pit stop at his room to ditch his books and pick up some clothes before heading out to meet his poet-muse. When he arrived, Jehan was just taking the first bag of popcorn out of the microwave. He hugged Grantaire hello and dumped it into a bowl while Grantaire set his stuff down on Bahorel's bed -- virtually the only thing that Jehan had not decorated with flowers, poetry, or bad patterns.

Bahorel had let Jehan decorate the room as he liked, since he only ever slept there, and even then only occasionally. As such, Jehan had bits of poetry pinned up everywhere -- Keats, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, and even Poe, among others. The main lights were out in favor of the gentler and more flattering (not to mention more movie-friendly) glow of fairy lights tacked to the ceiling. Jehan's bed was a mess of pillows, most of which looked as though they were collected from grandmothers and great-aunts, and his desk was awash in old, dusty tomes which appeared that they might crumble if one so much as blinked in their direction. It was a lovely room, but not so lovely as its inhabitant.

"Make yourself comfortable, we're in for a long haul," Jehan laughed, handing the popcorn off to Grantaire. Grantaire settled himself in amongst the too-many pillows on Jehan's bed while the redhead took two bottles of beer out of his mini fridge. Jehan might have had bad taste in fashion, but he most certainly had good taste in alcohol. It was Grantaire's favorite. After cracking off the caps, he gave one to the artist and climbed into the bed next to him with his laptop.

Two movies and three bags of popcorn later, the boys broke for dinner, which consisted of Chinese delivery and another set of beers on Jehan's plush carpet. Jehan was just as good at using chopsticks as he was at everything else. For all his dexterity, Grantaire just could not make them work.

"Writing must take much better fine motor skills than dragging a brush across a canvas," he said as Jehan arranged the cheap, disposable chopsticks in his hand.

"It's practice." Jehan smiled, letting his hands linger for a moment on Grantaire's fingers. "But it is like holding a pencil, yes. How much do you draw?"

"All the time. I draw more than I paint."

"You can get this, then." Jehan tapped the ends of his chopsticks together, prompting Grantaire to do the same.

After a few minutes, Grantaire was successful enough to finish his dinner, but was no where near as elegant about it as Jehan. When they both were finished, the poet took their trash to the refuse room down the hall. When he returned, he asked, "How often do you draw people you know?"

Grantaire was comfortable enough with Jehan now to have shared his talent, and Jehan had loved everything. He kept asking to see more, to watch Grantaire draw or paint for class, and Grantaire wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or flattered. He was leaning toward flattered. Anytime Jehan was excited about anything, it was irrationally cute.

"Pretty often, actually." Grantaire smiled. "Why?"

"Would you maybe..." Jehan blushed and giggled at himself.

"Absolutely." Grantaire didn't need him to finish the sentence.

"Do you want me to turn on the lights, or?"

"No, just sit down. And hand me my bag." Jehan sat down, cross-legged, across the rug from Grantaire while he pulled out his sketchbook and pencils. "Come here. I can't draw you from that distance in this light."

"Well how close do you want me, then?" Jehan asked, pushing himself forward onto his hands.

And dear God he crawled across the carpet and Grantaire had to put out his hand to get him to stop. Drawing Jehan was going to take all of his concentration and he did not need this. Nonetheless, he patted the carpet just in front of himself. "Right here."

Jehan took this quite literally and sat knee-to-knee with Grantaire, which elicited a coy smirk out of both of them. Grantaire took a minute to assess his subject, which was a much better way to word what he was doing than admiring every minute detail of Jehan's face. "Take your hair out."

Jehan tugged the elastic out of his red curls and instinctually fluffed them around his face.

"You're perfect. Don't move."

Grantaire put his pencil to the paper and it was magic. Very rarely did any of his artistic endeavors work out as easily, or as well, as Jehan did. (He would later find that this was not a one-time deal, that every time he drew or painted Jehan would be just as wonderful as this. He would eventually chalk it up to Jehan's physically expressive nature -- he was incredibly fluent in body language, and Grantaire translated it very well to the page.)

As Grantaire drew, Jehan watched his hands and the lines that swept across the page. Every now and then, their eyes would meet as Jehan was focused on Grantaire's expression when he looked up to reference again. Every time made Jehan smile, but Grantaire remained focused, building Jehan out of graphite. When he was finished, he took a moment to admire the result before he handed the book over to his muse.

He looked at his artist nervously before he took the sketchbook and looked at the portrait Grantaire had drawn. It was a beautiful bust, ending at the slope of the poet's bare shoulders. The way Grantaire had captured the soft line of his jaw and the delicate curves of his nose and cheekbones was perfect. His curls framed his face flatteringly. But his eyes were beautiful, half-lidded and sleepy and sparkly, and matched in just the right way with the upturn at the ends of his lips to make his expression affectionate and content.

Jehan was astounded. He looked incredulously at Grantaire, who just smiled at him, and set the book down on the floor next to them. "Is this how you see me? Really?"

"No. That's you. It has nothing to do with me at all."

Jehan put a hand on Grantaire's cheek, soft and reassuring. "It has a lot to do with you."

Grantaire laughed quietly and shook his head. "It doesn't, really. You're just beautiful, Jehan."

The poet leaned forward slowly, adjusting to put himself on his knees, and never took his hand from Grantaire's cheek. They traded nervous glances and Jehan breathed across Grantaire's lips, "You're beautiful, too, you know." The kiss he punctuated this statement with was soft and sweet and painfully short.

When he did not respond, Jehan blushed again. "I'm sorry, I just--"

"No, Jehan. Please." Grantaire put his hands into Jehan's hair and invited him this time.

Grantaire's lips were chapped from the dry autumn air, but that was the least of Jehan's concerns. He was mostly worried that he was moving too fast, that this was not just as much what Grantaire wanted as it was what he wanted, that their first kiss was going badly.

He didn't know that Grantaire hardly had anything to compare this to. Grantaire had made out with one of his female friends in high school, but they had been drunk, and it had been sloppy, and it had ended with him getting punched in the face by her boyfriend. He didn't know why he had even done it, after the fact. He liked girls, and thought girls were attractive, but had always been much more interested in guys. This was unimaginably better.

He told Jehan so. "You are so beautiful, and so wonderful, and why the hell do you like me at all?"

"Maybe because you're beautiful and wonderful."

"You don't have to mock me, Jehan." Grantaire frowned.

"No, no. I would never. I mean it." He ran his hands through Grantaire's dark curls and kissed his artist again. "I did have one more movie planned, at least, but I may have to kiss you all night to make my point."

Grantaire licked his lips and studied Jehan's face for a moment. "As much as I would like that, I think it's probably best if we just watch that movie." Grantaire kissed his poet this time.

"Okay." Jehan smiled, perfectly happy to follow through on his original plan. He pushed himself up and grabbed for Grantaire's hands to bring him to his feet. He kissed Grantaire's knuckles before he picked up the sketchbook again. "Thank you. This is beautiful."

"It's only because you are."

"If you keep talking, I am going to have to convince you to skip the last movie." He handed the book back to Grantaire, who put it back into his bag.

"What are we watching?" Grantaire stretched his hands over his head, working out the tension that had built in his back from sitting on the floor.

Jehan was already clicking through his laptop again, searching for the file. "It's a French film. It's been a really long time since I've seen it, and I don't quite remember how it ends." When Grantaire made a face he added, "It's got subtitles. Humor me."

Grantaire settled back into his spot on the bed as Jehan opened the last of the first six-pack in his fridge. Cold beers in hand, the two snuggled in and started the movie.

Both their bottles were empty halfway through and at some point, Jehan had begun quoting along with the actors in perfect French. Grantaire had not known Jehan was multilingual until then. It only made him more perfect. By the end of the film, when the female lead was dying of some terminal disease in the arms of her lover, Jehan was crying silently into Grantaire's shoulder.

Grantaire had his arms around Jehan's waist, his face buried into his red curls, not speaking only because he didn't know what to say. As the end credits started rolling, Jehan nuzzled Grantaire's neck, his breath hot and uneven against the other boy's collarbone. He apologized for the second time that night.

"Jehan, stop it. You have nothing to be sorry for."

Grantaire felt him smile against his throat. "And you wonder why I like you so much." Jehan kissed his neck. Grantaire's heart dropped into his diaphragm, and his breath left him in an involuntary sigh. Jehan's laugh came from his throat, low and intentional, and he pushed his computer to the end of the bed. Grantaire had not let him go, but he twisted in the grip to straddle Grantaire's thighs. After he wiped the tear-stains off his face, he spoke again, his hands trailing across Grantaire's shoulders and down his chest. "Grantaire, I know it seems to be hard for you to understand, but I _really_ like you. You are brilliant and funny and ridiculously talented and holy fuck attractive. And I am not kidding. I just want to make sure that you know that, and I want to be sure that you're okay with this, because if you're not, I'll stop."

"Jehan, all I know right now is that you are incredible, and I would be really stupid to say no to you." Grantaire pulled Jehan closer. "Please kiss me."

Jehan went back to Grantaire's throat, kissing and sucking and biting at the sensitive skin there and eliciting low, approving noises from the artist. Grantaire's hands pushed against Jehan's hips, ran down his back, tugged at his hair, never finding one place to rest for too long. Jehan worked his way up to Grantaire's jaw before finding his mouth again, and wasted no time in biting his lips apart.

When Jehan went back to his throat, Grantaire laughed at himself. "I'm sorry, I'm probably really bad at this."

"You are perfect." Jehan punctuated every word with a kiss further down Grantaire's neck. His hands pushed up under the hem of Grantaire's shirt, his nails trailing along his ribcage, and the garment was gone without any further prompting. Jehan moved to unbutton his own shirt, but Grantaire pushed his hands away and did it himself, kissing Jehan again as he did. The poet threw his shirt to the floor, and finally took a moment to actually look at Grantaire.

He was muscled, but a bit soft around the edges from lack of upkeep or too much alcohol or both. His skin was still the slightest bit summer-tanned, his shoulders broad, his chest strong. A barren tree stretched across the left side of his ribcage, under his arm. Jehan's fingers traced the branches and he smiled to himself, but did not ask about it.

Grantaire had gotten it when he was sixteen, and always went back and forth on its meaning. Family. Knowledge. Strength. Sin. Right now, it meant only that someone was touching him, appreciating him, and dare he even think it, loving him. Jehan's touch spread like fire through his chest, and for a moment, it was difficult to breathe.

"God, Jehan," Grantaire exhaled, his hands, for now, resting against the poet's pale chest. They were quiet for the space of a few breaths, time which Grantaire took to settle before he wrapped one arm around Jehan's back and pulled him flush against his stomach. His free hand wound into Jehan's hair and tugged gently. Jehan's eyes slid shut as he turned his head to follow the direction and bared his neck. Grantaire took his time, and kissed slowly, and he could feel Jehan's breath against his ear. Grantaire heard Jehan smile, and then he hummed, and then he rolled his hips and Grantaire bit him, hard. Jehan gasped in the most delicious way but did not pull back, and instead whispered through his teeth, "You are such a fantastic tease."

Jehan allowed him to continue for just a minute more, and gave him one low, satisfied moan, before he pushed Grantaire away. Grantaire had not realized just how warm Jehan was until there was airspace between them again, but the chill did not last long before Jehan had him on his back in his nest of pillows, and was back on top of him and kissing his mouth again. Grantaire wondered how long he could handle the taste of Jehan's tongue against his own before he would explode. Just the idea of the poet's pretty mouth against his was a lot -- his soft lips and his perfect teeth and his lovely tongue which made such wonderful words on their own working with his to create _this._

Grantaire did not realize he was speaking between kisses until it was too late, and Jehan was laughing that perfectly unbearable throaty laugh again. Grantaire felt Jehan's words in his mouth when he spoke, not bothering to pull away, _"Si tu penses que je suis terrible en anglais, tu devrais m'entendre en français."_

All of Grantaire's faculties left him as Jehan spoke, and it took them a moment to return. When they did, Grantaire muttered, "I have no idea what the fuck you just said, but please keep talking. God, Jehan, your fucking mouth."

 _"Tu aimes ma bouche? Je pourrais ne rien dire du tout, et tu t'en ficherais probablement. Tu ne parle pas une once de français, n'est ce pas?"_ Jehan spoke softly as he kissed his way down Grantaire's throat again, continuing this time down his chest and stomach. He stopped when he got to the waistband of Grantaire's jeans, when he sat up enough to see Grantaire swallow thickly before he muttered, "Oh, God."

 _"Tu sais exactement ce que j'ai l'intention de faire, hein? Tu ne peux pas comprendre un mot de ce que je dis, mais tu sais exactement ce que je vais faire. T'en a envie?"_ Jehan palmed Grantaire through his jeans, the ends of his mouth quirked into a smirk.

"Now which one of us is the fucking tease?" Grantaire groaned, pushing himself against Jehan's hand. "Fuck, Jehan, please."

 _"Ah, bon garçon."_ And then Jehan was undoing Grantaire's fly and very deliberately dragging his nails across Grantaire's hips as he pulled his jeans away and all at once Jehan's fucking mouth was on him hot and wet and Grantaire was awash in a chorus of _fuck fuck Jehan oh my God shit you are so fuck--_ and Jehan fucking hummed again and Grantaire dissolved into whimpering and groaning and tried to smother himself with one of Jehan's stupid pillows because _there is no way the neighbors aren't hearing this_ and _fucking God Jehan you are so fucking unreal_ and Jehan stopped for a second to breathe and kissed Grantaire's hip and he still had his face buried in the pillow but _no please don't stop I'm so--_ and he couldn't bring himself to say it despite not being able to _fucking stop talking_ and Jehan said it instead _jouis pour moi?_ and Grantaire didn't even fucking care what that meant only that Jehan's mouth was on him again and _Jesus fucking Christ yes_ and Jehan fucking swallowed and Grantaire was relatively sure he was never going to be able to move again and he couldn't breathe anymore from the heat of his own breath on his face and absolute utter bone-deep embarrassment and Jehan fucking _swallowed what the actual fuck was that._

Jehan kissed his stomach before he moved to take the pillow off Grantaire's face. He hid under his hands instead. Jehan smiled, and brushed the end of his nose against Grantaire's. "Hey."

"Hey what?" Grantaire still didn't remove his hands from his face.

"Do you wanna look at me maybe?"

"No, not really."

"I'm not going away, y'know. Not until you kiss me and tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong. You're perfect."

"Okay first of all that is a lie. And you still haven't kissed me so no cigar."

Grantaire took his hands off his face only because it was too warm to keep them there anymore. "You are absolutely shameless, you know that?"

"No changing the subject. But yes, I do." Jehan smiled.

"If I tell you something stupid will you not laugh at me?"

"Of course I wouldn't, tell me all the stupid things you want."

"Before tonight, I-- I mean I haven't--" Grantaire felt the heat rising in his cheeks again, and felt for a moment like he might throw up or pass out or both.

"Oh, baby." Jehan nuzzled Grantaire's cheek. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"No, it's okay, I just wanted to explain." He put a hand into Jehan's hair and they kissed.

"It was good, though, right? I didn't rush you into anything?"

"You are amazing. If I had wanted you to stop I would have said so."

"Good." Jehan kissed him again.

After a moment, Grantaire pulled away. "Do you want me to-- I mean I feel like I should, y'know... Get you off?"

Jehan could not suppress a giggle at this. "You don't have to. I get how you feel, but I can take care of myself."

"Well, I mean... I want to." Grantaire turned another, deeper shade of red and avoided Jehan's pretty green eyes.

"Oh. Well then of course, I want it if you do. But you don't have to do anything you don't want to. Like I said before, if you want to stop, we'll stop."

"You really don't have to give me the consent lecture. But thank you. Just bear with me, okay? Talk to me."

"Of course. Whatever you need."

Grantaire kissed Jehan in appreciation and smiled at him. "First of all, get off me." Jehan sat up and Grantaire kept talking. "Secondly, I have been dying to tell you all night, those pants are ungodly. Please take them off."

They were skinny jeans, printed in white and blue toile. Grantaire didn't even know jeans came in toile. (Jehan had gotten them in the women's department, which meant they were painfully skinny, and not just for the boy in them.)

"Yes, sir." Jehan mocked as he peeled them off, along with a very small pair of navy briefs.

Grantaire put himself back against the wall where he had started, and with those awful pants now on top of the pile of clothes on the floor, Jehan crawled back into his lap again. Grantaire laughed at himself, nervous and embarrassed and shy, and buried his face against Jehan's shoulder.

"You know I'm not magically a different person just because I sucked your cock, right?" Jehan wrapped his arms around Grantaire's neck. "And neither are you. You don't have to be scared of me. If you want to go slow, we'll go slow."

And so they started over again with kissing, slowly at first, but as Grantaire got his confidence back, much more deeply. Jehan smiled against Grantaire's mouth as the artist's hands made their way to his hips.

"Do you know how much I love your hands?" As Jehan said this, Grantaire wrapped his hand around the poet's length. He sighed, "Yeah, that much."

Grantaire was bright red again and he knew it. He kissed Jehan instead of thinking about it. Despite having his mouth occupied, Jehan still managed to make soft noises of approval that kept Grantaire from completely falling apart. The noises graduated slowly from small hums and sighs to panting breath against Grantaire's lips and moans into his kisses. 

After that, it wasn't long before Jehan fell back into his French again, _"Mon dieu, Grantaire. N'arrêtes-pas."_ He kept babbling until he came over Grantaire's hand and kissed him hard.

"You are incredible," he breathed as he rolled off the bed. He threw a dirty towel at Grantaire to wipe off his hands, which were shaking now. Grantaire dropped it back into Jehan's hamper before he started picking through the pile of clothes for his underwear.

"I need a cigarette," he said as he pulled them on.

"I'll go with you. Let me get dressed."

Outside, Grantaire made quick work of two Sonoma menthols, sharing the second one after his hands stopped quivering. As long as his mouth was occupied, he reasoned, he would not have time to say anything completely stupid. Instead, he said nothing, which was probably just as bad of a choice.

"What's wrong?" Jehan asked again, and Grantaire couldn't tell if it was smoke or steam coming from his lips.

"Nothing. I'm just tired. I didn't sleep well last night and after, well..." He took the last drag slowly and crushed the filter into the ashtray on top of a nearby trash can.

"Come on then," Jehan waved his ID over the electronic lock and the door unlocked with a heavy sound. "Let's get you to bed."

Grantaire did not sleep well that night, either, crammed into Jehan's too-small bed with his too-many pillows, the poet's too-hot breath and chest and hands against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things.
> 
> First, this is a sort-of prequel or backstory for Jehan and Grantaire in _amor pius,_ which is the other work in this series that I am writing with Gabriel. I am not sure if there will be additional works at this point or not.
> 
> Second, this is sort of my first ever kinda-smut fic. I'm sorry if it's bad, but I tried my best. This idea has just been floating around in my head for weeks and I had to write it.
> 
> Third, I am so _so_ sorry if my French is off. It's been about three years since I have formally studied the language, and I did brush up a little before I wrote any of the dialogue, but there may still be some mistakes. If so, please let me know and I will fix them! ♥ (Edit: Very, very much thanks to the wonderful [Phileas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phileas/pseuds/Phileas) for fixing my conjugation mistakes and other (hopefully) minor translation details! I have edited the lines to the ones you gave me, dear.)
> 
> Here is the (hopefully still correct) translation for the French in the order it appears in the text:
> 
>  _"Si tu penses que je suis terrible en anglais, tu devrais m'entendre en français."_ If you think I'm bad in English, you should hear me in French.
> 
>  _"Tu aimes ma bouche? Je pourrais ne rien dire du tout, et tu t'en ficherais probablement. Tu ne parle pas une once de français, n'est ce pas?"_ You like my mouth? I could say nothing at all and you probably wouldn't care. You don't know a single ounce of French, do you?
> 
>  _"Tu sais exactement ce que j'ai l'intention de faire, hein? Tu ne peux pas comprendre un mot de ce que je dis, mais tu sais exactement ce que je vais faire. T'en a envie?"_ You know exactly what I intend to do, huh? You can't understand a word I say but you know exactly where I'm going. Do you want it?
> 
>  _"Ah, bon garçon."_ Ah, good boy.
> 
>  _"Jouis pour moi?"_ Will you come for me?
> 
>  _"Mon dieu, Grantaire. N'arrêtes-pas."_ My God, Grantaire. Don't stop.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks a bunch for reading! I hope to have part 2 of this up soon. Stay tuned for further updates on _amor pius_ as well.
> 
> ♥ L


	2. they will break you every time

The next morning, Grantaire woke up stiff and feeling like he had been hit by a truck. Jehan was curled uncomfortably against him, still sound asleep at -- Grantaire squinted at the clock across the room -- oh. Six thirty. Grantaire couldn't even remember the last time he had seen six thirty at the top end of his day.

He extricated himself carefully from Jehan, who sighed in his sleep and buried himself back into his pillows, and made his way down the hall to use the floor bathroom. He grunted in response to a "good morning" from another guy -- assumedly an athlete because who else would willingly be awake at this hour, especially on a Saturday, and shit, his abs were perfect -- who was getting out of the shower. He reluctantly counted his bruises in the mirror and found at least half a dozen burgeoning purple splotches across his throat and chest from Jehan's mouth. The feeling that arose in his gut was familiar, but not welcome.

Unable to come up with anything better to do, and unwilling to sit around waiting for Jehan to wake up, or to wake him up himself, Grantaire dressed as quietly as possible and walked to the studio. It was unsurprisingly empty, including the three sofas thrown around the room where over-enthusiastic (or over-stressed) art majors sometimes crashed. He found a stool, and an easel, and a scrap canvas board that looked like it had been painted over about fifteen times, and a spot where the light might be good when the sun finally decided to rise. He plugged in his earbuds, and pulled on an old green beanie that had been shoved in his coat pocket, and put up his hood, and painted.

The first figure he attempted turned into Jehan, and when he tried to fix it, or change it, it became Jehan even more thoroughly. He painted over it, and decided on a landscape instead. When he found himself painting the Eiffel Tower, he turned it into the Empire State Building, and then realized he had no idea what the New York skyline looked like. Somehow, the sun had come up, and Grantaire was splattered with paint and brush water and was listening to some album he didn't even know he had bought.

He thought, momentarily, about getting something to eat, or at least a coffee, but just the idea of it made his stomach twist and fuck, his hands were shaking again. He went outside for a cigarette instead, and the cold air on his face and menthol in his lungs grounded him a little, slowed down the thoughts in his head, but did not stop them.

Then again, he wasn't sure anything would ever stop them.

Around noon, he finally got the text from Jehan. "Where are you?"

"Painting," he responded, hoping he was being non-specific enough.

He wasn't. Fifteen minutes later, Jehan was pulling one of his earbuds out and kissing his cheek. "Hi."

"Hey," Grantaire continued pulling columns with his brush.

"Is that the Acropolis?"

"Yep."

"With no reference?"

Grantaire held up his phone, which had a photo of the ruin as the lock screen.

"It's lovely."

"Thanks."

"Have you eaten yet? Do you wanna go get lunch?"

"No."

Jehan moved to look Grantaire in the face. "Grantaire, how long have you been here?"

"What time is it?"

"Twelve thirty."

"Six hours." Grantaire never looked up from his painting.

"Are you okay? You're being really short with me."

"Yes, Jehan, I am fine. Is there anything else you want?"

"No. No, I guess not. You left your stuff in my room, though. Let me know when you want to come pick it up."

Grantaire did not respond, but screwed his loose earbud back in and very deliberately turned up his volume. Jehan looked a little offended as he left the studio. Grantaire could not bring himself to care.

He avoided Jehan for the next two days, the only contact between them a text message from the poet, "If I have done something wrong, I would appreciate it if you would let me know. Take all the time you want, but you know where to find me if you need anything."

Grantaire called Bahorel on Monday afternoon. "Hey, are you back in town?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I left some stuff in your room over the weekend. I need to come get it."

"Oh, sure. Whenever, man, I'm skipping class today."

"Alright, I'll be right over."

Grantaire was thankful that Jehan was nowhere to be seen when he arrived. Bahorel let him into the room and quickly flopped back on his bed with a cup of coffee. "Prouvaire left all your stuff over there." He gestured with the mug to Jehan's desk. Grantaire's bag was sitting on the floor in front of it.

"Thanks. I'm sorry to intrude." He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

"No intrusion. What happened with you guys, anyway? Jehan said you haven't talked to him."

"It's a long story." Grantaire put a hand on the doorknob. "I'll see you later, man."

"He's freaked out, y'know. You should call him."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Grantaire wrestled with that idea for the next forty-eight hours. He found himself clicking through the contacts in his phone a handful of times, but never calling, never texting. The words just turned about in his head, "He's freaked out y'know."

 _He's freaked out?_ He's _freaked out? I'm freaked out! Jesus Christ there is no room for him to have a breakdown about this. I am the one that has breakdowns. Fuck him. Why can't he just fucking leave me alone like everyone else? I can't. I can't have this discussion. Not now, not with him, not ever. I need a fucking drink and an entire fucking carton of cigarettes and a hole somewhere to fucking bury myself in. Why do I fucking do this? I just--_

His phone rang.

"Jehan, I do not want to fucking talk to you." He answered.

"You don't have to talk to me. Listen." Jehan begged. "Please. I don't know what I did and I've been thinking about this for days and I don't know what to do anymore, R. I, fuck..." His breath was ragged on the line. "I'm scared, okay? I'm scared that I hurt you and that you will never look at me again. I'm scared that you aren't talking to me. I'm scared that I did something really, really stupid and that you're beating yourself up for it, that you'll hurt yourself because of me. Please, Grantaire. If you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine, I get it, but talk to somebody. I just need to know that you're okay."

Grantaire was quiet for a moment.

"Grantaire."

"Why do you care so much?"

"Because you're my friend, and I feel like this is all my fault, like I pushed you into something you didn't want or weren't ready for. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"If you are not in your room in five minutes I will..." He couldn't come up with a suitable threat, so he hung up instead, grabbed his keys, and stormed out.

Exactly five minutes later, he pounded down Jehan's door. The poet opened it cautiously, his eyes still red and his breath still shuddering. He said nothing, but backed into the room. Grantaire shut the door behind him, harder than necessary, which he was sorry for, and immediately hugged Jehan as tightly as he could manage. It took a moment, but Jehan squeezed him back, and sobbed openly into his shoulder. It was no time at all, then, before Grantaire was crying just as hard, and his grip on Jehan became desperate, as though he might try to leave if Grantaire did not hold him tight enough.

Neither of them knew how long they spent like this, clinging to each other like they had been lost at sea, but eventually the tears subsided and they stood there, still too raw to move or speak. Jehan drew slow circles on the back of Grantaire's neck, and Grantiaire stroked his hair in return.

It was Jehan who broke the silence. "I'm sorry," he whispered, kissing Grantaire's cheek.

"Me, too." Grantaire buried his face further into Jehan's shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Grantaire shook his head. "No, not right now."

"Okay. Well, come on." He loosened his grip only enough for Grantaire to understand what he intended, and made sure that he was stable before he finally let go. "Take off your shoes, and your coat."

Grantaire complied, handing the latter off to Jehan, who threw it over his desk chair. He then pointed Grantaire to his bed. "Go. In."

Grantaire did not even think about the implications of this and climbed readily into Jehan's nest of pillows and blankets, taking the time to make himself comfortable. Jehan climbed in after him, and Grantaire settled himself into his chest.

And the thoughts were quiet.

And Grantaire slept very, very well.

 

They never did talk about it. Not really. Jehan eventually came to understand that it was just one of those topics one did not bring up, though whether it was for fear of Grantaire’s emotional health or in spite of it he never quite figured out.

Grantaire joked about it, mostly. When they were sitting on the quad reading, or grabbing last-minute coffees before the cafes shut down, or making their way out of the bar. “Man, they were so intimidated by me they couldn’t even look in my direction.” “Someday someone will be brave enough, or, wait, no, stupid enough, to try to hit on me.” “He wasn’t attractive, anyway. I could find a hundred guys better than him by sun-up. But could you imagine?” They were small digs, but many small wounds could kill a man just as easily as one large one.

He was explicit about it only when he was drunk. Falling over, slurring words, completely incapacitated, drunk. And Grantaire needed a lot before he got that way. It almost never happened. And he wasn’t exactly articulate when it did. But Jehan knew, and he would crawl into bed beside him and let him babble about it until he fell asleep. The next morning, he would not remember that he had said anything about it at all, and the next morning, Jehan would smile and pretend that he hadn’t. But for the time being, Jehan would lie in bed and cry. The idea that someone so funny and loving and talented could feel so empty and worthless and alone hurt Jehan to his core.

Positive attention, affection, words of encouragement or praise, especially from people he trusted or admired, was something Grantaire could not understand. From strangers it was easy. They had bad judgment, or poor taste, or were one of those people who were kind and polite to a fault. From people he knew and understood, from people who had proven that they were intelligent and trustworthy and discriminating, it was upsetting. It was lying. It was mockery. And the more it was insisted, the angrier Grantaire was about it. Jehan had learned to be brief, and eventually his praises were simply things that Grantaire took in stride. Words like "wonderful" and "fantastic" and "lovely" were just descriptors that Jehan used for everything. He held hands and kissed cheeks and shared beds with all his close friends. He was affectionate. He was one of those people who could find something good in everything. Jehan simply chose to ignore all of the bad things about Grantaire.

Which never made sense, because Grantaire knew there wasn’t really a single good thing about him.

Jehan knew differently. He knew Grantaire’s kindness, and his wit, and his intelligence. He knew Grantaire’s compassion, and his acceptance, and his good humor. And he also knew that Grantaire needed these small affections to get by. Grantaire needed his hair fixed, his knuckles kissed, to be brought to bed and have someone to sleep next to. And he knew Grantaire wouldn’t let anyone else do it.

Jehan had to. And so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was difficult. It really was. I hate putting characters through this, but I know it was necessary.
> 
> But it's beautiful, in the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, everyone. Stay tuned for updates on _amor pius._
> 
> ♥


End file.
